Page 9 of The Concubine King
“My name, thank you very much.It’s Ethyr.”
“As you wish, Divine Ethyr.”
Ethyr dropped his face into a hand.When he lifted it, the man was leaving.“Wait!”He paused and turned around.“What, uh…” Ethyr lowered his voice.“What’s that priest’s name?”
A curious smile quirked his lips.“High Priest Yorith.”
Ethyr exhaled in relief.He had begun to worry he’d have to ask the priest himself.At that point, it would have been embarrassing.
“Do you need anything else, Divine Ethyr?”
“No,” he sighed.“Thank you.”
The man dipped his head and walked out.
Ethyr rubbed his palms vigorously over his face, sucking in a deep breath and trying to collect himself.His head was stuffed with wool and his throat was parched and, worst of all, this was still real.
Instead of washing, he lifted the bowl and gulped down a mouthful of water, but gagged and almost spat it back out.It had a bitter, floral taste to it, like he’d sucked water out of a flower petal.
He sniffed it.It smelled like flowers, too.Resigned, he washed his face and hands, put his tunic and boots back on, and tied the woven belt around his waist instead of his leather one.It was a meager comfort, but it was a comfort nonetheless.
He met the priest in the other room, assuming correctly that that was the ‘refectory’ he mentioned.The guards were there—he wondered if they’d stood there all night—and two more strangers were there as well, standing patiently by a wall.
The table had been cleared, and in place of the dozens of small plates was a single platter hosting pieces of fruit and a bowl of nuts.Ethyr wasn’t sure he could eat even that.The thought of swallowing anything solid dripped nausea down his spine.
He sat across from the priest, not remembering until his reproachful look to sit “properly.”
“Very good,” Yorith said when he was in the torturous position.He gestured to the platter.“Fruits and nuts may be partaken of with bare fingers.Bread and hard cheeses as well.”
Ethyr swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“When food is offered to you,” the priest replied coldly, “you must eat at least a bite to show gratitude.”
Ethyr scrunched his face.After a long, reluctant moment, he reached out and picked a berry to pop into his mouth and get down as quickly as possible.
Yorith lifted a hand and one of the attendants stepped forward to put a stack of square white cloth on the table, placing a stick of metal and a little bottle beside it.Then they lifted the platter and carried it out.
Ethyr stared at the stack, tilting his head as though it would give him a better view.It didn’t look woven, it looked almost felted, but he was certain it was not wool.
“You said you can write.Show me what you know.”
Ethyr frowned at him.“How am I supposed to write with this?”
“What did you write with before?”
“Tablets of clay and sticks of wood.”
The man sniffed in unsurprised disapproval.He pulled one of the cloths off the stack, then lifted the stick of metal and dipped its pointed end into the bottle.With a few quick strokes, a line of letters was drawn across the pristine white.He placed the cloth in front of Ethyr and held out the stick.
Ethyr took it hesitantly, examining it.The pointed end was hollow, and had a little line cut through its tip.He dipped it into the bottle like the priest had, but when he brought it back the movement splattered black paint across the table and cloth.
Yorith sighed in quiet frustration.“You must wipe off excess ink into the bottle,” he told him.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”Ethyr accused.
“I mistakenly assumed you had enough intelligence to mimic me.”
Ethyr’s frown turned into a scowl.Refraining himself from bashing the stick violently against the bottle, he tapped it inside the glass with only a little fit of anger.When he brought it to the cloth and started writing, the sharp tip cut straight through the cloth and into the table.
